


Two burning hearts are doomed to break

by OutofOrm



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enjolras is a cat person fight me, Fluff, Inspired by Music, Journalist!Enjolras, L'Amis, Love Song, M/M, Musician!Grantaire, Orpheus - Freeform, Reunions, Romance, apollo - Freeform, meeting after long, more than i intended, references to lesmis songs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:14:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26666518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OutofOrm/pseuds/OutofOrm
Summary: For Orpheus it’d been forbitten to look behind,but you’re not him, you’re Apollo, my love.You could have turned but never did, I’m resignedto know I lost my chance, Apollo, my love.orGrantaire is in a band called L'Amis and Enjolras is an investigative journalist. Courfeyrac might just be the sidekick in this but he sure plays an important role.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 52





	Two burning hearts are doomed to break

There was a summer, some eight or nine years ago.

It was the first year of university. They had a class together but never spoke other than the discussions they had there. At the end of winter term, the professor invited his students out for drinks. It was a small class. They talked, they fought, they got on like a house on fire.

Endless days were spend walking the city, talking about everything. When spring turned into summer, they spend the soft evenings in parks. Enjolras was passionate about most things. Grantaire was passionate about some things.

Sometimes, they came to a mutual understanding on topics but they never agreed on the state of the world or the amount of hope you should have.  
The bright future one could see was darkened by storm clouds in the mind of the other. Yet both believed the other could change the world for the better.

At some point they started to share the hot summer nights. Talking turned to no-talking. Falling into bed, tangled in sheets. Skin touching skin. The intensity of their arguments became physical passion. They agreed rarely but they loved fiercely.

The future was always on their mind, but hardly a thought spend about their own. But sometimes, in the small hours of the morning, they whispered. Whispered about what they would do – dreams, hopes, fears.

At the end of summer, it was all gone. One of them seized an opportunity for the future he had dreamed of. He left for another town, another school. The other man stayed, knowing it was never meant to last.

After this summer, they only met once. A short glimpse of a face that belonged to a summer long gone, to a life that never happened.

– Some eight or nine years later -

Enjolras leaves the office late. He isn’t the last one because in a newsroom there is _always_ someone. An editor waiting for a call from a correspondent time-zones away. A reporter trying to finish a piece for the next edition.

He actually has finished a piece just now, had send it to the editor-in-chief for approval. He’s buzzing with energy. This article could change things. He had spent days in archives, trying to get his hands on documents that show how the mayor is working for his own profit. Nepotism, corruption, black mailing. This could be the biggest corruption scandal this city has seen since the seventies.

It would not be the first time he shows how a few people in charge destroy the lives of many. The name of Émile Enjolras under the headline of a story brings panic into the stone-cold hearts of many politicians. He has a network of informants in ministries and in parliament. He knows all the wheels that make this government work – or pretend to work.  
He has seen bad but also good. He keeps going because change can happen. It happens. But for that you must shine a light on all the dark spots so many people like to hide.

He sends a quick message to Combeferre and Courfeyrac and heads to the bar they call their second home.

They arrive after half an hour and celebrate his success with him. Because he is sure it will be one. They drink, laugh, debate.

Enjolras feels alive.

His work makes him feel alive. It gives him purpose.  
A better future.  
He helps achieve it with words printed in black ink. He lives for it, loves it.

He comes home much later that night. Zola greets him at the door, running into the kitchen, hopping on the counter. He feeds him and leans against the counter while watching the white cat eat the food.

“Well enough,” Enjolras murmurs, “you give me company and I give you food. Good deal.”

The cat has been Courf’s idea. He was concerned that Enjolras would be lonely. At first, he was against it. Always content with being alone.  
“I live alone. I am not lonely, Courf.” But his friend didn’t listen and dragged him to the animal shelter one day.  
Enjolras had been resolute. At least, he tried.  
Because then he had seen this cat. It was in the room where the cats were allowed to walk freely. But Zola (Tommy, back then. What a stupid name.) had been sitting on the highest pole in the room. Just sitting and observing everything around. Courf had enthusiastically played with all the cats. But Zola only looked at Enjolras with a serious look in his green eyes. There was no way Enjolras would walk away from that proud cat.

Zola isn’t one for cuddles. He sits next to Enjolras while he types his articles. He watches with thoughtful eyes. They understand each other.

In the morning, Enjolras listens to the news on the radio, getting ready for work. After the news they play music, a song from a guy talked about as the new Damien Rice.  
He takes the metro, watching the people around him.

At work he has a meeting with editor-in-chief, who tells him his piece will be printed in the next issue and that he should prepare for inquiries from other news outlets, the critiques (and possibly, threats) that will be hurled his way, and to draft a follow up.

The glowing feeling carries him through the day.

He’s doing this job for six years now. He went to the best journalism school in the country, after a quick dip into politic science. But this is where his heart lies. Here he can do good and tear down the bad people along the way.

In journalism school he met Courfeyrac who went into cultural journalism. And Courf met Combeferre, who is a lawyer. A fact that helped Enjolras a lot of times. Those two became his closest friends, his family. He never needed a lot of people, spend most of his time at the office. He met a few good people there, too.  
His heart belongs to the words, the paper, the People.

Sure, sometimes Zola’s company isn’t quite enough. Sometimes, in the late hours, he longs for another human. A pair of arms to hold him, a smile to greet him after a long day’s work. He pushes thoughts about that kind of thing to the most distant part of his mind, though.

There is a song playing in the supermarket that evening. A melody like water. A voice like wind rustling trees on the shore of some northern country. He leaves with a strange feeling in his chest.

\--

After doing this for more than six years now, he finally feels like it could truly work. This could be a career, this could actually be his livelihood.

Grantaire had started making music in school, but never thought about it as a way to earn his living. He started to study economics and history. He loved history and hated economics. He started making music again in his second year at university. First, it was just him playing guitar and piano. But later, Joly and Bossuet joined him playing bass and drums.

Their sound isn’t entirely new. They take the best from the people who came before them and add their own thing. They played on campus and in little bars and pubs around town.

Slowly they build a reputation. Known for good music, intelligent lyrics, and the sarcasm with which Grantaire engaged in conversation with the fans from stage. The band is called _L’Amis_ , and on stage Grantaire uses the name _R_. He loves their music, playing with Joly and Bossuet. He even likes to talk with fans and the occasionally reporter, but only if their questions were interesting. But from the beginning, he wanted to separate the stage person from his everyday life. That’s why he is _R_ on stage.

Now, they have their second record out and radio stations are playing their single. Their first album was played on the radio as well. It came out three years ago. The indie music journalist praised it, but it went mostly unnoticed. It was played in those late-night radio shows, where the host introduces new music that isn’t mainstream material (yet?) and wax poetic about a bass line.

 _When Icarus fell_ is better than the first album, Grantaire is sure. He’s proud of it. But being good was never enough in this industry – you need luck as well.

And luck, they had: A friend of Joly, Jehan, put some songs into a film they did. The film won prizes at a film festival and _L’Amis_ music was heard by a bigger audience. Radio stations picked up the first single of the album.

 _Too high_ became their first number one.

Grantaire, Joly and Bossuet went clubbing that night, getting wasted and having the times of their lives. Grantaire woke with an enormous hangover and a lot of new photos on his phone.   
Joly and Bossuet woke up with a woman in their bed.

_L’Amis_ is playing on the radio now. They will go on tour, finishing here in their hometown. Grantaire is happy about it all, hell, he is enthusiastic!  
It’s a good feeling to know that people can relate to the things going on in your head.

He tells stories in their songs. Stories of myth, of heroes, of battles. They are stories about how empires rose, and worlds collapsed. Stories about hurt, loss, love, fear.

Yes, he knows that most of the songs he writes are sad songs, there is a melancholy underneath it all. Sometimes they get hopeful, talking of love. But most of the times it is a love long lost.  
The songs give you that bittersweet feeling some autumn afternoons offer – they paint a beautiful picture, but you can sense the ending it in all. Bright colours, so bright they cannot last. 

Other songs hide their pessimistic tones in fast tunes and catchy melodies. Those tell of hopes, of ideas and ideals - and the way nothing turns out as it should.  
  
Grantaire likes to give his songs a critical subtext, to analyse the status quo. He is never openly political, but he cannot not consider those topics.

\--

Enjolras’ story hits the nation’s news as soon as it is published.

The mayor tries to defend himself, talks about employees who did things behind his back. Witnesses appear to confirm what Enjolras wrote. He follows up with interviews with some of them and a knife sharp analysis of the strategy behind the mayor’s attempts to cover-up what he did.

The media pressure and public’s indignation finally force the man out of office.

Enjolras covers the campaign of a district leader, who steps up to the challenge to get elected as major. She is fierce and intelligent. She fights for social justice, payable rent, community involvement, and presents a plan of action for a more eco-friendly handling of traffic in the city.

She wins the early elections with flying colours and Enjolras wins the years prize for investigative journalism.

For the first time in months, his mind is capable of concentrating on other things. To celebrate his win (not of the prize, he doesn’t really care about those. But the win of justice.), he invites Ferre and Courf to dinner.

His cooking abilities aren’t that great, but he manages to make an amazing Spaghetti Bolognese. Purely because the biggest secret is time and not touching it.

They arrive with two bottles or red and eclairs for dessert.

Zola greets them with dignity. He lets himself be scratched under his chin and sits next to Combeferre on the couch. He doesn’t give his attention to everyone. But Ferre and Courfeyrac take care of him whenever Enjolras is out of town for work, so he tolerates them.

Topics over Spaghetti vary from Ferre’s latest case, to politics, sports, and everyday things.

“The day after tomorrow, I’m interviewing a band that’s currently the love interest of every cultural journalist. The music is very intriguing. A change from the interchangeable pop and all those musicians who think they are a gift from the gods.” Courf tells them after they finished the pasta and refills the glasses.

“What are they called?” Ferre asks, leaning back on his chair to stretch his leg.

“ _L’Amis_. They make a mix of music I can’t really pinpoint. It’s like The Kinks plus Sufjan Stevens, a bit of City&Colour thrown together with Vampire Weekend and that feeling of some Damian Rice’s songs. It’s like you never expect it to work but they managed to put out a beautiful record. They are three guys who are making music for quite some time now, but this is their first real success. The singer calls himself _R._ Apparently, nobody leaked his real name to the media yet.”

He gets up to grab his phone and connects it with Enjolras’ speakers. He puts on a song that Enjolras thinks he heard before.

_Too high in the brightest blue  
It fades to white. A feather below  
Never reached but so close  
What’s below? What’s below?  
Chains and feathers  
Too high_

“I think I heard that in the supermarket a while ago.” Enjolras has this odd sensation of recognition again. A whisper in the back of his head.

“Yeah, probably. This is their number one single _Too High_.”

“It’s sad. You don’t think so at first, but it’s sad…” Combeferre twirls his wine glass between his slim fingers.

“Yes, I think so, too. All their songs have these intelligent lyrics and a very interesting way to play with the mood. I am very much looking forward to the interview.”

\--

Grantaire, Bossuet and Joly arrive at their flats at 1am. They finished the second to last show of their tour that night. In a few days they would have the final show here on home ground. It would be the biggest one yet.

In the late morning they meet at Grantaire’s for breakfast and then they all take the metro to get to the hotel where they would have an interview with one of the most influential cultural journalists of the country.

They arrive early, there is an actual publicist of the label there as well because apparently that’s their life now.

Her name’s Cosette and she is an actual angel.

She guides them to the suite and introduces them to Courfeyrac who is already there, talking with a tall guy, who turns out to be Bahorel, the photographer.

“Okay, I leave you to it. If there is a topic off limit, the guys will tell you. Afterwards you have an hour for the shoot. Have fun!” With that she sits down in an armchair in the back and opens a laptop.

Courfeyrac, Grantaire thinks, looks like a very nice human being. Short, big smile, and red-brown hair that make his golden eyes shine. He has a recorder with him and a little notebook.

“Hi! Thanks for doing this. I am very happy that we can do it, because I think your music is bringing something new to the scene.” He makes it sound like he genuinely means it, not like a phrase to butter up to them. “I will record this but I won’t publish it. It’s just so I don’t mess up anything because my memory is shit.”

Here Bossuet laughs, “I can relate to that!”

Courfeyrac manages to make the atmosphere relaxed and asks question that don’t sound dull, although he starts with quite the standard questions. They talk about the start of the band, how they found each other. Who has which part in the band and so on…

“The band is named _L’Amis_. That is a sweet name. I guess it describes how you see yourself?

“Definitely!” Bossuet, nods.  
“But actually – “ here he exchanges grins with the other two – “we used to go by _L’Amis d’ABC_ but we dropped the last bit when we signed with the label.”

The sly smile on Courfeyrac’s face told Grantaire that he understands the meaning, but the journalist doesn’t inquire any further.

“Well, that’s not really the only made-up name going on. _R,_ any chance you tell me what that stands for and why you go by a stage name while the other two, I assume, use their real names?”

“Well, there isn’t much mystery about it. When we started to do this, I thought it would be very cool to have a stage name. So I came up with _R_. It stands for me, like my name.” Grantaire grins and the spark of mischief in his eyes tells Courfeyrac that it must be some kind of inside joke. Damn, he wants to be the one to print that piece on information.

“You guys told me that since the beginning you made every decision together. But in the information to the album it says that the songs are all written by you, _R_. Is that true? And to follow that question: What is the inspiration behind them? They sound like there are more layers of meaning to them than the simple meaning of the words of the lyrics.”

“I write the songs, but Joly and Bossuet have every veto right and when they have an idea to change something we work together on the lyrics.”

“But that doesn’t happen that often,” Joly interrupts him, “the lyrics are his field of expertise. We love them very much and are always excited to read new stuff. It’s the music we work on together.” He smiles at Grantaire, who smiles back.

“Your question sounds like you actually had a read through of the lyrics, which is amazing. You see – and this probably sounds confusing – I don’t necessarily write songs. I write about stuff that’s inside my head, that holds my attention. Sometimes it doesn’t turn into songs. But sometimes it does. In our songs, I want to tell a story, even if there isn’t much action or plot. A story can be a feeling, a thought. We live in a world that is based on stories. Since thousands of years people tell each other stories. I like that.”

Courfeyrac nods, looking at him intently.

“There is a sadness to your songs...Where does that come from?”

Joly and Bossuet exchange a very quick look, but Courf sees it out of the corner of his eyes. He is focused on _R_.

Grantaire looks back with a small, crooked smile on his lips.

“Well, that is a loaded question.” The smile splits into a grin.

Courf gives a shrug, “I am a journalist, you know.”

Grantaire laughs at that, shaking his head at the same time.

“Yeah.” He takes a breath. “There is sadness. Of course. Isn’t there sadness in all of us? I guess sadness is a feeling we can all relate to, more than to happiness – probably. All happy families are alike, every unhappy family is unhappy in their own way, to steal that thought.

But those stories I am talking about, the feelings you can find throughout history, they are all rooted in something sad. Or unpleasant. Humankind has an enormous capacity to love, but love is an extreme and extremes have the tendency to turn into their direct opposite. As you said, our songs have a layered meaning, and if you take into account the probability of good turning into bad or happy turning into sad, most stories have a melancholic undercurrent. There is sadness because it would be lying if you ignored the woes of the world.”

“Are your songs pessimistic?”

“No.” That answer comes from all three of them at the same time.

With a smile, Joly answers: “No, they are not. They are hopeful. Some more, some less. But there are things we believe in. We are not cynics. We are realists, optimists, and – well –sometimes pessimist.”

“The title of your album is _When Icarus fell_. It’s a common mythological theme. Why this?”

There is a second of silence before the question is answered.

“It is a common theme, true. But most of the times the tale is told like this: Icarus ignored his father’s warning. He flew too high and fell to his death. It’s seen as a metaphor for human hubris. But with telling it like that you ignore the beginning. It is a tale of the struggle for freedom. Daedalus and Icarus try to flee from Crete. It’s a story of the wish to be free and the price you, eventually, have to pay.”

Grantaire looks out of the window while answering, he watches the clouds fly by. Courfeyrac almost forgets to take notes.

“It’s a very human story. We try to figure out what caused the two to fight for freedom and what happened when Icarus fell. And if you can apply that to your own life.” Joly adds.

After that, they sit in a surprisingly comfortable silence for a minute.

Courfeyrac asks more questions about influences, musicians they admire, how they found their sound. And what’s next on the agenda.

“Well, in a few days we have our last concert. Big venue. It’s going to be amazing.” Bossuet tells him eagerly, knocking his water glass off the table while doing so.

“I’ll come to that. For first-hand experiences.”

“Perfect. We hope you’ll enjoy it.” Joly says earnestly.

With that they end the interview. Cosette springs into motion again and picks a few clothes off a coat-stand and hands them to the guys.

They make use of the pompous suite they are in and use the four-poster bed as the set for their group shot. Bahorel loves the idea. They are wearing the nice, knitted jumpers Cosette had decided on and slags.  
With their backs against the headboard they sit on top the bedspread, looking a bit rough, a bit out of place. Clearly showing the irony in the things they do.  
They follow it with a visit to the bathroom: standing in the enormous tub, leaning against the marble sink, and sitting on the toilet. Lastly, they gather on the balcony, wind playing with their hair (at least, Grantaire’s and Joly’s) and blowing open the coats, they are wearing now. 

Then Bahorel takes a few pictures of each one of them. A few more of Grantaire, who – for the media – is the face of the band.

Courfeyrac starts to write the article as soon as he is home. He works for the same paper as Enjolras, but also for other papers and magazines. This interview is for one of the most important magazines covering arts, culture, and lifestyle.

He enjoyed the interview. Sometimes, interviews could be tedious. Things you weren’t allowed to ask but wanted to. And then the things they wanted you to ask but you find boring. Now here was a band without guard – or with little guard.

There was something about _R_ ’s way to dance around the topic of song inspiration. Yet, they talked willingly and enthusiastically about their music. There was passion underlying it all.

And as much as he liked Joly and Bossuet, who seemed like laid-back and friendly people, it is _R_ who interests him the most. The way he explained the Icarus story. He looked lost in his thoughts, like he was at the same time thinking about a bigger picture. Asking bigger questions.

 _R_. Funny name. He would prod a little more, now he knew where they met, he could find old stuff about him. And his actual name, hopefully.

\--

Grantaire wanders through the city. It is a few minutes after midnight, the cold November air biting his skin. He had always loved this city. The history and the lives that happened here. 

_You talk of battles to be won  
But never silent falls the war’s song  
You’re a shining blaze in troubled night  
but oppressive darkness drinks from light  
So drink with me…_

These lines of one of his songs make their way to the forefront of his thoughts. He reaches a small square in front of a church. Grantaire sits down on a bench, the cold of the stone going straight through his jacket and trousers.

Tomorrow – no, today – they would have the last concert. In the afternoon it was announced that they are nominated for an award for their album. His fingers tingle. He knows rather than feels that he is happy. The last year was one of the best of his life.

The shadows inside his chest are small at the moment. He smiles to himself, pulls his hands through his hair and walks back to his flat.

\--

“What are you working on?” Enjolras takes the seat opposite Courfeyrac at the little bistro they like to meet for lunch.

Courfeyrac looks up from the laptop he was staring at.

“The article on _L’Amis_. I’m trying to change the structure a bit. I’m gonna see them tonight and I want to work that in as well, of course. I am damn glad I have my press ID and can get in with that because it’s completely sold out.”

Courfeyrac turns the laptop so Enjolras can see what he’s looking at. They always share their work, completely trusting the opinion of the other. Although Enjolras isn’t that much of a help when it comes to information on cultural events, because he is all engaged in politics and rarely has the time to go to exhibitions or concerts. He does comment on structure, wording, and the overall sound of articles, though.

“Oh hey! What are you doing tonight? Why don’t you come with me? It will be fun. It’s been such a long time since we did more than going for a drink or dinner!”

“I never even heard all of their music. That would be unfair to other people who want but can’t go.”

“Rubbish. You won’t snatch a ticket from anyone, you go in with you press ID and we stand at the side and enjoy the – in my opinion – best band there is at the moment.”

Enjolras thinks about it for a bit. He has no deadline looming. He has no meeting in the morning and it’s been some time since he last went to a concert.

“I think the last concert you went to was the Mark Knopfler one Combeferre dragged you to. You basically have no excuse to say no. That was two years ago.”

“Alright. Let’s go and listen to sad music.”

“ _R_ told me, that sadness is more individual than happiness. He quoted Tolstoy. Then he talked about Icarus being about more than human hubris. It’s not just sad music, Enjolras, it’s _good_ sad music.”

“You know that Icarus is fundamentally about the struggle of those in bondage to be free? I mean, yes the hubris bit – “

“ – oh God, that’s almost exactly what _R_ said.” Courfeyrac stares at him with big eyes and smile.

“Well, he sounds like he knows what he’s talking about, then.”

\--

_L’Amis_ arrive at the venue they play at that night. It is one of those halls you dream of playing at one point. Then you are backstage and see the scribbles and pictures of those who played here before. It feels surreal, exciting, thrilling.

Soundcheck goes smoothly. Grantaire and Bossuet chase each other through the stall, laughing a little maniac while Joly films them from stage.  
Then they share a beer in the green room area. A tradition. A way to centre them. A way to calm the nerves and start enjoying everything.

Musichetta gives Joly and Bossuet a kiss before disappearing into the front part of the venue.

Grantaire sings a few songs to himself. His fingers playing the strings of his guitar without him having to consciously asking them to.

When it’s time to go on stage, they have a big hug and then –

The sound of the crowd is deafening. This was definitely something they had to grow accustomed to over the last few months. Now Grantaire feels lifted. Like the energy of the people goes directly into him.

“Hey guys! Thank you for coming tonight. We are _L’Amis_. Let’s have a brilliant night!”

With that they dive into their first song. It’s one of the up-beat ones. It works perfectly.

After that, Grantaire takes a sip of the water bottle and high-fives Bossuet on his way back to the microphone.

“Well, thanks. I love your cheering! Let’s all sing our souls out, tonight. Let’s not go home until we laughed, cried, danced, and had a fucking good time.

On the bass guitar is the wonderful Bossuet and on drums the incomparable Joly. The singing and guitar playing you have to endure is yours truly, _R_.”

They start their next song.

On the left side of the stage, one third way down the hall, are Courfeyrac and Enjolras. Courf is already singing along. Enjolras isn't sure it is something an acclaimed cultural journalist should do, but he has other things to worry about.

That guy on stage.

 _R_.

Taire.

Grantaire.

It makes perfect sense now. The feeling of recognition, the feeling of something inside him shifting when he listened to the songs for the first time. All he can do right now is standing there and being completely thrown off guard and mesmerized at the same time.

“Well, that didn’t sound too shabby, guys” Grantaire is grinning. Sweat on his forehead. Energy filling his every fibre.

“As a child I heard the story of Icarus. I guess it was told as some kind of warning. I never understood it like that. To be free. To fly. Where should be the shame in that? Through life you have those moments. When you’re lifted up. When you fly, high and even higher. Sometimes those moments are followed by falls. The best can be chased by the worst. Well, the next song is about that.”

He tunes his guitar again, waiting for the crowed to be a bit quieter. And then he starts with _Too high._

The crowd falls into singing with him. At the beginning it’s just him and the guitar but softly Bossuet comes in and Joly has changed his drums for a keyboard. 

Grantaire sings with closed eyes, smiles when he hears the fans.

Enjolras is frozen on the spot he’s standing. His heart is racing.

When the song comes to an end, Grantaire opens his eyes, playing some more chords on the guitar, letting his eyes wander through the crowd. When the lights come on a bit brighter again, he looks directly in the direction of Courfeyrac and Enjolras.

When you’re at a concert, it’s not easy to tell if those on stage can see distinct faces in the crowd. If they are actually looking at you, when you think they are, or not.

But Grantaire actually looks Enjolras straight in the face. Their eyes meet.

Time stops.

\--

A few years back – maybe three – Grantaire was in one of those clubs that pretended to be classy and cool but was just as boring as all the others. They were in the middle of the dance floor. Bossuet and Joly were dancing very enthusiastically but Grantaire wasn’t feeling like chatting the dude up who was slowly edging nearer. With no real intention of going out or getting another drink, he moved towards the edge of the dance floor. When he left the mass of dancers and found himself next to the wall, he had a clear view of the door. There he was.

Enjolras.

Standing under the exit sign, looking disgruntled but oh so beautiful.

Enjolras. The man he had loved all those summers ago. The man that still was on his mind, even after all this time. The man who got up and left his life one august day. They had a few months together. Months that felt like an eternity and like a second at the same time.

They had never planned anything. Never exchanged numbers. Always talked about the future – but never their own. Never about a future where they would both be in it, together.

Of course, he had wanted that together. Enjolras had been a promise, a dream, a flicker of something more.

He was reminded of that all in a club that smelled like cheap alcohol and sweat. He went home that night and wrote songs. He never thought he would see him again.

\--

Enjolras is here.

Grantaire misses a string. It pulls him out of his shock. He finishes the last notes of the song. Smiles to the applause but his mind is distracted. His eyes wander back to that corner of the room.

Enjolras is looking at him with an unreadable expression. The blue he knows his eyes have indistinct in the dim light of the room.

He turns and takes a sip of water. He thinks very, very fast. What was that he just said about flying high and falling deep? He did fall deep. He had a high and fell again, crushed. Maybe this is the one chance he gets.

Hadn’t he been looking for those gold curls and those piercing blue eyes in crowds? In every tall, handsome blond walking into a bar he – at first – saw Enjolras.

Now he is here.

He walks to Bossuet.

“Hey, this is such a dick move, but – do you trust me?”

Bossuet stares at him with big eyes. Mouth forming an unspoken ‘what?’

Grantaire waives Joly to come closer. Luckily, he does so instantly.

“What’s the matter R? Why did you miss that chord just now? Are you okay?”

“Yes, no. No? Yes. But I am about to do something incredibly unprofessional and I hope you back me up?”

“What are you talking about, man?”

“Well, I told you about Enjolras…”

There was something akin to understanding dawning on their faces.

“He’s here. This is such Nancy Meyers crab, but – if it’s okay with you – I wanna play a song that’s not on the list. Not on the record. You can come in, if you like. I’m pretty sure you heard it before. Is this ok?”

Bossuet and Joly exchange a look and then, they nod.

Grantaire nods too, takes a deep breath, and turns back to the microphone and the crowd.

“Sorry for that little interruption there, folks. That was a tiny emergency band meeting in the middle of a concert. Not very professional. I am sorry.”

His eyes search Enjolras. He’s standing there with his arms crossed, a frown on his forehead.

“But I have just told you about how it is important to fly. I think that is absolutely true. If you see an opportunity to fly, do it. Even if you are afraid of the fall or don’t know what’s underneath.”

He takes a deep breath again.

“I once had the opportunity to fly. Well, it was rather a jump. I didn’t know if I would fly or fall in the moment I jumped. I was flying. And it was the best feeling of my life. I felt free - with that jump I found freedom.  
Flying turned into a very deep fall, though. My wings – my freedom – were taken from me. I guess I got too close to the sun. I was burned by Apollo.  
I never again came so close to the sun but once I saw Apollo in passing. He didn’t notice. God’s rarely do. But it gave me light again. I felt the tingle of the rise and the fall again.

Well, this is about that moment.”

He looks at Enjolras and closes his eyes.

Courfeyrac turns to Enjolras and stares at him.

“I have no idea if this happens at each of their concerts, or if he just went rogue – are you okay, Enjolras?”

Enjolras can’t answer, he’s staring at the man on stage. The man who, during a few months, changed his life. The man he had left behind. The man he still thinks about, in the darkness of his flat, in the small hours of the morning.

“Enjolras…” Courf touches his shoulder but he can only shrug. Too concentrated on Grantaire who is standing in front of the microphone, strumming a few chords on the guitar.

Grantaire is still only plugging a few strings, music pearls from it. Soft notes, dark intonation. And then Grantaire starts to sing. His voice softer than before, a raw quality to it but still clear.

_Took me by surprise, under the green exit light  
you’re as beautiful as ever, makes my soul ignite.  
I’m in this club to dance and maybe find  
a one-time lover to fill the void you left behind.  
Memories rush back, normally I’m on guard  
but they’re here, of that summer, now years apart.  
You gave me melodies of thoughts and hope  
But left. I stayed and wept; an ancient trope._

Enjolras feels his heart miss a beat. He knows what Grantaire is singing about. Not only those months from university, no. Once, he was out with Ferre and Courfeyrac and the club was too loud, too stuffy. He tried to get out to get air. He had thought that through the crowd, just before heading out, he had seen that head of black curls and the green eyes he can still picture when he closes his eyes. But he had blinked, and it was gone. He thought it was his memory playing tricks on him.

_For Orpheus it’d been forbitten to look behind,  
but you’re not him, you’re Apollo, my love.  
You could have turned but never did, I’m resigned  
to know I lost my chance, Apollo, my love._

His nickname – once murmured in the darkness of his room, in the safety of a naked embrace – sends a sharp pain through his heart.

_All alone I tried to move on, with a drink in hand,  
no road ahead or goal to reach, to Nothing I relent.  
In music I found a way to go on but, true,  
Apollo’s the god to that art, too.  
I worship him with every chord that I strike  
Every song a relief and a heartache alike.  
My path is intertwined with yours and  
I had hoped you’d be at the end. _

_For Orpheus it’d been forbitten to look behind,  
but you’re not him, you’re Apollo, my love.  
You could have turned but never did, I’m resigned  
to know I lost my chance, Apollo, my love._

Grantaire opens his eyes, he’s looking at him. He closes them again, his voice trembling over some lyrics.

_The club’s air is sticking, suffocating sweet  
not unlike in the pub where our souls first meet.  
Told me about freedom, the fight of justice and wrath  
I never believed but knew I’d follow you on ev’ry path.  
You’re gone, I’m here, and maybe it’s nobody’s mistake  
Because two burning hearts are doomed to break.  
Under the exit light you’re as beautiful as always  
Only a moment, a fraction, then again parting ways._

Enjolras can feel his eyes filling with tears now, but a smile forming on his lips. His heart seems to grow and shrink at the same time.  
Courfeyrac is looking at him, a hand put on his mouth, eyes wide and glistening.

_For Orpheus it’d been forbitten to look behind,  
but you’re not him, you’re Apollo, my love.  
You could have turned but never did, I’m resigned  
to know I lost my chance, Apollo, my love._

_My love, you’re Apollo, the sun  
Make me dream once more_

_Apollo, my love, my love  
give me one more chance  
Apollo, my love_

Grantaire sings the last chorus without his guitar, just his voice. Feeling a bit rough from the tears he’s trying to hold back. He had looked at the rest of the audience, too, during the song. He can see faces, looking up at him with big eyes.  
He almost whispers the last lines.

Silence stretches for a few seconds and then the crowd erupts in cheers.

He smiles at them, tries to blink away the tears but fails. The people clap even louder.

His eyes search for Enjolras again. Find him, of course, they always will. He is standing there, a hand over his face. Then he pulls it through his hair and Grantaire can see his face. It’s flushed, the blue of his eyes is shining bright and there is a smile.

A smile Grantaire has spend years trying to remember correctly.

He can see the reporter, Courfeyrac, next to him. He pulls him into a hug but Enjolras manages to keep eye contact.

Grantaire turns around to Bossuet and Joly who stare at him. Joly gives him a smile, a thumbs up and shakes his head. Bossuet is crying a bit and gives him a quick hug, turning from the audience to wipe his face.

“Well, thank you for being so kind! That was … well, something. Okay. Let’s talk about what just happened after the concert” He shoots Enjolras a quick look, who nods.  
“And now I really would like to say: let’s play happy music. But, well, you know us. Happy is rare in our repertoire.”

He grins and the people laugh. Good, his feelings didn’t fuck up the whole show.

They play the set through and give two encores. The last being the most up-beat song they have to send the people off on a cheerful note.

Off stage, Grantaire asks Feuilly from security if he could bring the two reporters who are standing to the left wall into the green room. He nods and walks off.

And now, Grantaire becomes nervous but he is still on the adrenalin buzz every concert gives him, so he just hopes that he will know what to say.

Joly and Bossuet understand him without him having to explain a lot. Both hug him very, very tightly.

“Change your shirt before he arrives” Joly only says.

Grantaire does that because Joly is, of course, right. His t-shirt from the show is soaked in sweat. He changes into a black button-down.

He sits down on a couch, fiddling nervously with a water bottle, and waits.

Enjolras tries to explain to Courfeyrac what just happened in the last 80 minutes. He really does. But his mind is in a turmoil. He is sure that he’s not making any sense.

“But…why didn’t you realize?” Courfeyrac is watching him like he has grown another head.

“The voice, I kind of connected it to something, but I wasn't sure to what. And, back then, he wasn't making music. He never told me he was a musician.”

“And the name? Wait! You know his real name!” There, the journalist in him got the better of him.

“Yes, of course. Now the stage name is actually quite obvious.” He says with a grin, it reminded him of the way Grantaire had played with words. Used them. Changed them.

“Hey, _R_ asked if you like to meet him in the green room” A red haired guy is standing next to them and suddenly, Enjolras can’t move. He nods, but his legs aren’t working.

“Yes, a pleasure. Just, give us a second.” Courfeyrac smiles at him and turns back to Enjolras.

“Okay, Enjolras, get a grip. I never expected this rom-com stuff when we got here but now this is the best thing that has ever happened to me – and I am just the sidekick, apparently. Don’t fuck this up. I believe in you.” He shakes him quickly, but with a surprising amount of force.

“Okay.” Enjolras pulls his hand threw his hair again and nods to the guy standing a few steps away.

They arrive in a corridor and the guy, Feuilly, points to a door on the right.

“Go ahead, he’s in there” and lefts.

“I will wait here, scream if you need me. I will call Ferre in the meantime because I really have to tell this to someone right now. Enjolras – “ here Courf hugs him and pushes him off – “go!”

Enjolras isn’t sure how breathing works. He just chased a corrupt and highly influential politician out of office and used his power to convince the people of a better choice. And yet, here he is, afraid to open a door.

He takes a deep breath. Grantaire just sang him a song, in from of a thousand people. If he can do that, he can do this.

He opens the door. Grantaire sits on a couch, looking at his feet, fingers tearing apart the label of a water bottle.

“Taire” Enjolras voice is so soft, Grantaire thinks he imagined it. But when he looks up, there he is.

He gets up but isn’t sure what to do next. The door behind Enjolras closes and now they are standing face to face. After some eight or nine years.

“Enjolras”

Yes, Enjolras had left. But he never did so without saying goodbye. They had their goodbye and it had been awful. But what they never did was exchanging numbers. Even in those last moments, they didn’t think of it. Grantaire had no way to contact him, back then. Because he didn’t know where Enjolras lived after the move. And the school wouldn’t hand out contact details of their students. He stayed where he was. Enjolras could have contacted him. Grantaire thought he never did because he didn’t want to. It had been the worst feeling in the world.

And now, Enjolras is here.

Enjolras stares at him for a moment, swallows and then starts talking:

“I couldn’t turn around. I thought you wouldn’t want me to. I thought if you wanted to stay in touch, you would’ve said something. You didn’t. And I wasn’t able to look back, because I was sure it would kill me.”

Enjolras voice is so raw, Grantaire wants to take him in his arms – and never let go.

“For someone so intelligent, you are so stupid.” Grantaire feels a half grin spread across his face. “I would have followed you everywhere. But I thought I would hold you back. I knew your plans. I knew keeping you for me would be the most selfish thing. I hoped that you try to contact me, though. I waited for so long.”

“I missed you” Enjolras furiously wipes away the tears that are building in the corners of his eyes. “Fuck, I _miss_ you.”

Grantaire does the only appropriate thing: he practically runs to Enjolras and wraps his arms around him, pulls him in close until all he can see is the blond hair in front of him, smell his scent and feel his body tremble in his arms.

He gives in to the tears, too.

“So, we are cry-babies now. What else is new with you?” Grantaire manages to say after a long while of just standing and breathing in each other’s present.

“I am a journalist now. Just wrote an article that made a bad guy lose his job. Won a prize for that. I have a cat. Stumbled across the guy I was deeply in love with in university because my friend dragged me to a concert of this band he thinks is the biggest deal right now. You?”

Grantaire cannot hold back a smile.

“I’m a musician now. After years of barely getting by, my mates and I made an album that – apparently – critics think is the biggest deal right now. I don’t have a cat but two friends who act like one. I am lactose intolerant and just sang a song, I never played live before, in front of thousand people because I spotted the man in the audience who, I am sure, is the love of my life.”

Enjolras pulls back a bit and looks Grantaire in the eyes.

“It’s so good to see you, Aire.”

“It’s fucking amazing to see you, Apollo.”

The kiss that follows seems to be intended to make up for some eight to nine years of separation. Lips find each other. Hands knowing all the right spots. Bodies fitting together like they were made as one.

The video of Grantaire’s impro goes viral. He sings it again at the award show where _L’Amis_ receives the prize for the best album of the year. Enjolras thinks that Grantaire looks dangerously good in his suit. Grantaire is certain that he will die because never was there a more beautiful human being than Enjolras in a red suit.

They still fight. They still disagree. They still make each other better. Grantaire doesn’t lose the melancholy feeling to his songs, but he writes a few more hopeful ones, too. Enjolras arguments become even sharper. There are sleepless summer nights. And warm embraces and smiles after coming home from work.

There is light. There is freedom.

They are flying. They never look down.

(And Zola likes Grantaire better than Enjolras)

**Author's Note:**

> See, I was on the subway one day listening to music when this song (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fKhdec3uyrQ) came on. And then this story came to life in my head.  
> Writing that song was difficult. It started very close to the Capaldi song but it developed, became more like somehting R would write. I kind of have a melody in mind but I am sure Grantaire can sing it far better than I ever could.
> 
> Grantaire's opinion on Nancy Meyers are his, I enjoy the movies.  
> Yes, Combeferre made fun of Enjolras for choosing that name for the cat.  
> And yes, Enjolras is grumpy that the cat prefers R.  
> Lastly, there are more nods to songs from Les Mis in here than at first intended.
> 
> Thank you very much for reading  
> L.


End file.
